


Quite The Exquisite Creature

by wildenessat221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, First Meeting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, No Homophobia, Paris adventures, Yakov is the ultimate wingman, a world where the past was cool, essentially the oscar wilde au nobody asked for, operation get chris a boyfriend, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: Lord Feltsman's gatherings were always despairingly dull.Well... Mostly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one was... Just fun! I hope you enjoy too. Also... Can anyone tell I'm into Oscar Wilde? Please comment if you feel so inclined... Thank you for reading, and more to come!

It was mid-afternoon in early summer, when Sir Nikiforov and Sir Giacometti found themselves milling around a formal evening at Lord Feltsman's country manor. Despite the month, well renowned for its long, hot days and glorious sunshine, the sky was overcast with lingering clouds, and the grass was moist with droplets of rain from spring showers that simply refused to shift. 

Sir Nikiforov shook out his left trouser leg petulantly and huffed, both the cuffs of the garment and his spirits utterly and miserably damp. 

He could have been lounging in the Bahamas, or punting in Verona, or he even heard that Salzburg was pleasant at the time of year, yet he was whiling away long hours in Lord Feltsman's Devon holiday lodgings, in the company of the bland and dull. Even Sir Giacometti, usually relied on to liven up proceedings was emitting a grim, grey sort of air, as though the cold had sunk into his bones too. 

Across the field, beyond a soft brown and peeling fence, two wild horses shot past, the back hot at the front's heel and the front's hooves pounding on the ground in a clawing attempt to keep its lead.

A second, then gone. 

Nikiforov sighed. 

'A thousand times more exciting and then some than what's happening in there,' he mumbled to his friend, gesturing with his head to the dull light of the manor behind him. 

'Couldn't agree more. But it's cold,' he gritted, arms folded over his chest. 

'But I'm bored.'

'But I'm cold.'

Nikiforov pulled his cashmere scarf from around his neck, and held it out to Giacometti without looking. 

'Thank you,' he wrapped it around his neck, then clamped his arms around himself again, 'Can we go inside now.'

Nikiforov groaned, and cast his scowling friend a harsh look from the corner of his eye, 'You're entertaining Master Plisetsky.'

Giacometti snorted. 

'Braving his insults, you mean. I've heard it said that Master Altin is to be arriving soon, though. Perhaps that will mellow him.'

'Ever hopeful.'

***

Champagne was ever the saving grace on occasions such as this, and Nikiforov was on his sixth glass. 

Giacometti was rumoured to be on his sixth bottle, and was missing. He had claimed it kept him warm. Nikiforov wasn't sure. 

He found himself perched on an expansive dining table, old Lords with medals dangling from their chests breezing past him with their wives laughing false laughs not giving him more than a glance. He had no stories to tell, no glorious battles to boast of, they decided.

The battles of the Danish Royal Ballet Company meant nothing to them, though they could have been just as brutal and just as bloody. Nikiforov was certain that his wrecked feet could rival any of their battle wounds. 

It was partway through his seventh glass, when the clock struck midnight, and he deemed it acceptable to begin to pursue Lord Feltsman and bid him goodnight. He'd need to find Giacometti too, lest he prove to be a danger to himself, or more likely, society. He stood and brushed himself off, shaking his head from the blurring alcohol and licking away some of the heaviness from the inside of his mouth. 

Then his functions stopped. 

A young man, small and squinting was just visible in the corner of the room, dark dishevelled hair falling over one eye and a modest smile sat on his lips. He was talking to another young man, smaller still and darker, with deep intense eyes and adorably flushed cheeks. 

Then, the crowd parted and he was given a full view, of the most wonderfully timed, exquisite scene he could ever hope to witness. The man's head was thrown back and he was laughing, mouth full of pearly teeth exposed and full lips moulded into an expression of pure jubilation. His eyes were shut, and wrinkled in the corners, and he appeared to be glowing, ethereal and otherworldly. Suddenly, there was no oxygen in the room.

Head empty and light, with white noise that sounded oddly like a love song playing in his ears, Viktor inched along the table and flattened himself against the wall, then stumbled out of the room with a slack jaw. 

Lord Feltsman gave him an odd look, which he deemed a suitable farewell. 

He forgot about Giacometti.

He made it back to their shared temporary lodgings somehow, with no recollection of doing so. His friend arrived soon after, a considerable number of clothing items down, singing, and blind from intoxication.

Nikiforov wrestled him into one of the crisp, single beds as he laughed out of the corner of his drooping mouth. 

'My life is changed, my friend. I shall never be the same again, for I have seen true beauty and nothing shall ever compare,' he whispered to his inebriated companion in the low lights.

'That's nice, old chap,' came an absent minded, slurred response. 

***

'Oh, but Lord Feltsman, you must know who you invite to these gatherings.'

'Indeed, my boy, but your powers of description could use some honing. 'That ethereal creature with eyes that you could fall into,' is - you have to admit - vague at best.'

'Your lack of creative vision is wounding.'

Giacometti hit his head on the table despairingly.

It had taken two days for him to starve off the headache that he claimed was, 'The devil himself making himself most comfortable,' a few minutes for Nikiforov to regale his pitifully short tale of how his life was changed forever, then another hour for them to return to Lord Feltsman's manor to subject him to relentless questioning. 

'I simply must find him! Or I shall drown in a sorrow so consuming and so viscious that I shall be irredeemable at best and vegetive at worst!'

'We can't have that,' Feltsman replied drily, rough eyebrows climbing up his forehead condescendingly, 'Abandon the poetry for a moment, Nikiforov and describe him plainly as you would to a police inspector.'

He put a hand to his chest dramatically. Giacometti lifted his head just high enough that he could drop it down again. 

'Well, Lord Feltsman-'

'Why did you bring me here?'

'Quiet, Giacometti. Well, Lord Feltsman, to describe him as one would a felon is near impossible, for he is surely the purest being to ever have existed, a creature of art not darkness, but I shall certainly try my best. He is of Asian descent, I believe, with deep, dark eyes and soft skin. He is small in stature but large in spirit, which he expresses through a marvel of a beaming smile, adorned by perfect teeth and pink lips. His eyes, though deep, squint, as though he is looking for a deep meaning in everything he sees. He glows with a personality that is rare, and sparse in those who possess it.'

'Asian descent, you say? And small?'

'Not as small as a companion of his, but small all the same.'

'I believe you are making reference to Katsuki Yuri, of Japan. A quiet boy, polite - you could take lessons, you outlandish fiend - and wrought with a nervous quality. I am fond of him, most are. But I do not believe he is romantically entangled.'

Nikiforov beamed.

'How wonderful!'

'Oh, and he squints because he is visually impaired, my boy. I don't doubt that he has intellect, but doesn't actively seek it as you suggested.'

He waved a hand. 

'All the same... how can I meet him?' 

Giacometti lifted his head. 

'Did he mention that they never spoke?'

'I suspected. I happen to know that he tends to frequent the public gardens when in these parts. That is likely your best chance to make his acquaintance without methods that would concern the law.'

'Excellent! Come along, Giacometti, you love gardens! That's you, isn't it?'

'No.'

'Oh well! You love my company. Let's go!'

Giacometti shook his head, and shot Lord Feltsman a look. Nikiforov flashed him a smile. 

'Thank you Feltsman! A wealth of information as always.'

He rolled his eyes and hummed. 

'Get on the pursuit of romance, lover boy.'

'Certainly shall!'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back! I hope you're enjoying my little self indulgent late-Victoriana fest! Comments would be much appreciated. Thanks again!

'Perhaps we should call it a day-'

'The pursuit of romance, Giacometti!'

'Yes, yes. Fine.'

He slid further down the bench and crossed his legs at the ankles, folding his arms around himself with a huff. 

Nikiforov remained in his upright position, craning his neck to peer over the flowerbeds. They were seated in a corner of the garden which had a full view of the area, so they could see every passer by without issue. 

Despite the vibrancy of the view - Nikiforov found the vast majority of people most interesting, provided they weren't stuffy generals who looked down their nose at him - his spirits were beginning to dampen behind the sunny resolve that Giacometti found to be so annoying. The sun had made a considerable journey across the sky in the time they'd been sat there, and none of the strollers or idlers or laughers or grinners had been Katsuki. 

He was beginning to feel an ache settle in his bones, an impenetrable ache that he felt could only be lessened by that pair of deep, squinting eyes. He wanted to be close enough to fall in, to be dragged in, right to the bottom and unable to claw himself up. He wanted to tangle his fingers through the mass of dark hair, and be warmed by his skin, and wrapped around his limbs. 

He wanted a conversation. 

He imagined he had a voice like caramel, like sweet tea, like the borscht his mother used to spoon feed him when he had a fever at home. Trickling and flowing, melodic like a cathedral hymn, lyrical and lilting. It would feel like a soft embrace, he decided, and he wanted to hear it from inside a real warm embrace. 

His cheeks flushed at the thought, and a frowning Giacometti gave him a look that made him think that perhaps his friend had developed omnipotence and said, 'You haven't even met him yet. And you were drunk.'

'Not half as drunk as you were.'

'But I didn't make the mistake of falling in love, my friend.'

Nikiforov pouted.

'You most likely made some other rather impressive mistakes, though,' he murmured.

'Perhaps, but I also didn't make the mistake of remembering them,' he smirked. Then, softer, 'It's growing cold, and late. I sincerely doubt if he's going to show. And there is nothing romantic about hypothermia.'

'A fair few novelists would beg to differ,' he muttered sadly. 

'We could go and get drunk, and make some mistakes, and remember none of them if you'd like?'

'I think I'd rather go to bed. I want to remember today. Remember never to fall in love again. It's like the turning of seasons from Summer to Winter. An enormous warmth, followed mercilessly by a biting cold,' he said bitterly. 

'You enjoyed the Romantic Movement, didn't you?'

'Immensely.' 

He sighed heavily and tipped his head back, 'Alright...' he stood up, in one sweeping movement, arms outstretched like a thespian, 'Alright.'

Giacometti smiled a long suffering smile, 'Well. That was painless.'

'Oh, be quiet.'

He chuckled. 

***

Nikiforov sat cross-legged on his single bed, chin resting on his folded hands. His shirt was open and untucked, braces trailing pitifully on the bed. Giacometti emerged shaven from the small bathroom, and Nikiforov stuck out his lip petulantly. 

'Thought you were going to bed.'

'I'm on the bed. I said nothing about sleeping. Savouring the memory of a broken heart, remember?'

'Hmm. Are you sure you don't want to get drunk?'

'Certain, thank you.'

'Right,' Giacometti plucked a small bottle of whiskey from the pocket of his coat draped over a small wooden chair, then flopped onto his bed melodramatically. He unscrewed the cap with a flat-lipped half smile, 'Your loss.'

He tipped the bottle back and pressed it to his lips, then pursed them and drank with scrunched up eyes. Then choked, poured some down his nose, sat up, shook out his head, lay down again and repeated. 

Nikiforov watched him with raised eyebrows, then rolled his eyes and shut them. 

They sprung open again at a knock at the door. 

'I'm... somewhat incapacitated,' said a spluttering Giacometti, with the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. 

Nikiforov huffed. 

'Fine.'

He padded along the floor in bare feet, shoulders decidedly stooped, and fumbled with the key. A couple of mumbled Russian profanities escaped his lips, as he prodded at the keyhole without method, then opened the door, with his chin directed to his feet. 

'Good evening!' said a lilting voice like treacle. 

Nikiforov blinked. 

And then fell into a pair of dark eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm having immense fun with this. I hope others are too, and thanks for coming back! Comments would be much appreciated.

He was spiralling, down and down into an abyss of wonder and warmth and delight and confusion and all manner of other terribly confusing emotions.

He could feel his cheeks turning pink, and his jaw falling open like a particularly foolish goldfish, but he couldn't seem to be able to re-enter his body in order to render either. 

Behind him, Giacometti was no longer just choking on his whiskey, but doing it around stifled laughter. Nikiforov simultaneously wanted to throttle him for ruining the atmosphere and kiss him for creating one. Otherwise, it would just be him staring slack jawed at a beautiful man, who despite Nikiforov's foolishness, simply would not stop smiling. 

It was making Nikiforov a little hot under the collar. 

'Good evening,' Katsuki repeated after a while, 'Deepest apologies for showing unannounced, Sir Nikiforov-'

'Wonderful! Fine... It's fine. Wonderful in fact, it's... Wonderful.'

Giacometti let out a burst of laughter so violent he fell off the bed with a thud, bottle of whiskey rolling along the floor before bouncing against the wall and halting. Katsuki peered over Nikiforov's shoulder slowly, with a squinting expression of confusion, then pasted the dazzling smile back onto his face, which Nikiforov thought was remarkably unfair of him. 

'Well I'm... Glad its wonderful. I was sent at the request of Lord Feltsman-'

'Oh?' asked Giacometti with amusement dripping from his tongue, clawing himself up from his position on the floor.

'Yes... I paid him a visit to thank him for his hospitality at the gathering, and I happened to mention my lodgings. He realised that they were near yours, I believe, and asked me to return this to you. You... Left it in his dining room.''

Katsuki reached behind the door, and pulled out a sleek, navy umbrella with an artistic flourish that made Nikiforov swoon slightly. A sleek, navy umbrella that he had never seen before in his life. A sleek, navy umbrella that he had certainly not left at the gathering. 

'Ah yes... My umbrella. Good old Feltsman... Always... Tidying up after me,' he let out a nervous chuckle, 'I can't thank you enough, I take this everywhere. I'd be lost without it. Not to mention drowned.'

Katsuki let out a chuckle, which (a more self aware than most tend to realise) Nikiforov thought was rather charitable. Giacometti, relocated to Nikiforov's bed, with his amused face rested on his closed fist snorted. 

'Would you like to come in? My friend was just leaving.'

'No he wasn't,' said Giacometti cheerfully, with the expression of bated anticipation of a child at the theatre. 

'It appears he's changed his mind,' Nikiforov said coolly, shooting him a look of daggers, 'But he won't mind some company.'

'It's quite alright, really. I must be heading back, it's growing dark and I'm unfamiliar with these parts.'

'Oh, you are?' Nikiforov asked delightedly.

'I... Yes. I tend to stick to the gardens, where it's open and I shan't find myself anywhere unfamiliar.'

'Then you simply must allow me to be your guide! I, for one seek out the heart and soul of the place when I find myself in this corner of the world. Good lord, I could show you wonders! Shall we say, tomorrow at noon? Here?'

Katsuki blinked, and Nikiforov bit his tongue. 'Too much, Vitenka,' his dear mother whispered in his ear. He batted her away.

'Sounds delightful!' Katsuki said after a while, voice shaky with surprise but genuine.

Nikiforov beamed what he knew would be a ridiculous heart shaped smile. 

'Excellent!'

'Goodnight, Sir Nikiforov. I hope you sleep well,' he glanced over Nikiforov's shoulder, 'And you. Sir...'

Giacometti gave him a little wave with a languid smile, without giving his name. 

'His name is Giacometti and he is an utter nightmare,' Nikiforov said, rolling his eyes. 

'Certainly am.'

Katsuki chuckled, 'Well, goodnight both of you,' he smiled, before his exquisite form was retreating down the street.

Nikiforov watched him go, pupils dilated and heart aflutter. 

He frowned at Giacometti as he shut the door. 

'You did not help,' he said flatly. 

Giacometti shrugged.

'I didn't hinder either.'

He dropped unceremoniously onto the ground, knees hitting the floorboards hard, then crawled over to to where his whiskey had landed under the window.

'You realise it's only a matter of time before he find out you're a nightmare too?'

Nikiforov flopped dramatically onto the bed, and stretched his arms out over his head. Like a lovesick youngster, he sighed. 

'I shall be delighted if it gets that far.'

***

'For goodness sake, Nikiforov they're the same colour.'

'They are most certainly not! How can I be sure that if I arrive in a vermillion scarf, he will not have been aching for crimson? Or the other way around? Lord, it's entirely possible that I shall disgust him to such extremes that he shall run and never turn back if I make the wrong choice!'

Giacometti groaned. 

'Feltsman owes me a large sum for playing matchmaker,' he mumbled, from behind the elbow that had made its way dramatically over his nose. 

'Remind me to send him a fruit basket. And an umbrella,' Nikiforov said absently, preening himself in the mirror with a crimson scarf draped over his left shoulder and a vermillion one over his right. He sighed heavily, 'Which one?'

'Both.'

'Giacometti.'

'Fine. Crimson.'

'Don't be absurd.'

He dropped the crimson scarf onto the floor and wrapped the vermillion around his neck, 'There.'

Giacometti rolled his eyes. 

'Dashing.'

'Thank you.'

'He'll be falling at your feet.'

'I certainly hope so. Though not at the expense of those wonderful knees. Oh lord, he's going to be here soon!'

'Three hours, Nikiforov.'

'Soon!'

'Calm down, for goodness sake.'

'...perhaps you were right about the crimson.'

'Give me strength.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much fun... Wow. Thank you for coming back, and welcome if this is your first time! Tour guide shenanigans to come, and lots of questionable metaphors. Comments much appreciated!

'Where's your umbrella?'

'Umbrella?'

'The umbrella you take everywhere... The one you'd be lost without?'

'Ah...'

Nikiforov played with the hem of his coat and pressed his lips together, Katsuki's expectant eyes burning into the side of his neck. 

'When I'm with you, the skies wouldn't dare intrude, I'm certain.'

'...right.'

They were side by side in a narrow street, sun shining on the perpetually damp cobbles. Street vendors were shouting foreign words in a tongue they were both familiar with, obscure colloquialisms hanging in the air.  Their strolling feet dragged along leisurely, two pairs of arms hanging down lazily as the hasty world scrabbled along behind them. 

 Katsuki's elegant fingers brushed against Nikiforov's for a fraction of a heartbeat, then were gone, like a strike of lightening on an expanse of baron ground. Water filled up in his chest, and he willed it to rush away. It trickled instead, lingering and trickling, but Katsuki's fingers only drifted further away. 

This would be the death of him, he decided, drowning in the inches of space between him and the man that coloured the world. 

He smiled. 

'Is there anything you'd like to see?'

Katsuki cast his eyes in a quick circuit of the area, then turned to Nikiforov and smiled back.

'You're my guide.'

'Ah yes, but you see I'm almost too good... I have public houses and libraries and galleries and parks and mansions and patisseries and butchers and bakers and blacksmiths and...'

'Circuses?'

'None of those. They put animals in cages and exploit people who don't fit into society's most rigid boxes.'

'Excellent... Just checking.'

Nikiforov raised his eyebrows.

'Under scrutiny, am I?'

'Not quite. Just... Moral vetting.'

'Vet away, I suppose. As long as you give me some guidance as to where to take you as you're seeking out my deepest and darkest... Whatever you're looking for. You can consider me your guide book, just so long as you're willing to play glossary.'

Katsuki laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. 

'A gallery sounds good. I want see some colour.'

'Does my scarf not do it for you?'

'Your scarf,' he said, with an amused inflection, 'is an excellent choice.'

He grinned, 'I thought so. Thank you.'

(The crimson was folded into his inside pocket. Just in case. Giacometti was on the floor muttering in French how he wanted to go home by the time Nikiforov had left.)

'But not excellent enough. It's fine... I understand. I shall recover,' he gave him a look out of the corner of his eye, 'I expect.'

Katsuki snorted this time, and it was raw, and uninhibited, and almost twice as beautiful as the laugh. He stopped it abruptly though, and licked his lips self consciously. 

'Sorry... You're taking me to an art gallery then?'

'Darling, I would take you anywhere in the world.'

'But an art gallery this time?'

'This time.'

The phrasing implied that there would be a next time, and perhaps after the next time there would be another next time. And because of all these prospective next times and because he'd chosen the right scarf, and because the sun was shining just perfectly into Katsuki's deep, deep eyes, he threw caution to the wind and clasped their hands together. 

Katsuki's cheeks were pink, and his eyes wide at having been so violently thrown off guards, but the smile he was trying so desperately to hide could have launched a thousand ships. 

Nikiforov felt rather faint. 

He giggled ridiculously, then increased the pace of his strides, pulling him and Katsuki into the scrabbling urgency of the real world.

***

Nikiforov liked Bradford's ships but not his icebergs. 

He couldn't bring himself to enjoy Sully... His colours were too muted, but he thought Manet was a genius who breathed life into a portrait. 

He spent a good few hours trying to work out how to effectively phrase, 'None of these are a patch on the artistry you create by the simple feat of existence,' without being 'too much, Vitenka.'

He stopped looking at names after a while, and after a slightly longer while, he stopped looking at the paintings and looked at Katsuki instead. He watched as his squinting eyes got up close to the canvases, boring into the paint and taking it apart layer by layer. So carefully, did he observe, eyes tracking every brushstroke, a quietness to his minute movements that flowed instead of stilting. Elegance in his analysis. It was enchanting to watch. 

And intoxicating when he turned to Nikiforov and did the exact same thing.

'You're an anomaly, Nikiforov,' he breathed, breath tickling his neck in a poorly lit, intimate corner of flowers and fruit bowls, 'You're so loud... Yet you keep so much quiet.'

He was peeling away with his eyes, inching closer to the core. 

They'd known each other for less than a week. 

They'd known each other for more than a lifetime. 

Nikiforov swallowed. 

'You're more beautiful than all the paintings here.'

'And you are harder to read than the most abstract of artworks, even though you use the brightest colours. And I'm having immense fun trying to interpret you. And I don't intend to stop any time soon. If that suits you.'

'My lord, it does.'

'Good,' he dropped his voice impossibly further and smirked, 'Your spare scarf is escaping.'

Nikiforov looked down, and saw crimson poking out from his breast pocket. He flushed at first, then smiled a beaming smile. 

'Katsuki, you are mistaken. That is simply your influence causing my heart to burst.'

'Of course it is, dear.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a different chapter... Backstory galore, with just a little of the main story at the end which will be elaborated on later. I hope it plants the seed of curiosity! Thank you so much for reading, and please do comment. Thanks again!

When Nikiforov was very young - the young that came before young and beautiful, when all a child can do is scream and babble and cry - he lived with his paternal grandmother in France. His father had passed away following a nasty bout of pneumonia just weeks after his birth, and his grandmother had taken him away as a matter of principle. Her son had strayed, following his heart instead of his lineage, living for passion instead of currency, which wasn't the way of her centuries old name. He lived in the clothes on his back, soaking up life and soul from every corner of the globe, and every person he could find, leaving behind pieces of himself in return. 

One of the more substantial pieces was his heart. 

He left it in Berlin, with a beautiful, slight Russian beauty who had waves of platinum hair, eyes of ice and sharp features. 

The language barrier between them was towering and tall, impenetrable with no cracks showing, so they spoke with their bodies. Whispers of reverent touches, endearments in a cup of hot tea, arguments fought and won in empty spaces under bedsheets. They conversed with their eyes and discovered the secrets of the universe on each other's skin. 

However, there was no way to communicate, 'I'm aristocracy,' with eyes or skin, so Tanya didn't even try. 

Somehow she knew it wouldn't last. 

She smiled blankly through her wedding as her new husband spent his last penny, and remained blank but smiled a lot less as he perished. 

Viktor Andreyevich Nikiforov, tiny and unaware with his mother's icy eyes attended his father's funeral, and had it whispered into his ear that he'd be a champion, he'd live up to his name, he'd shine, as he was handed over to the woman who viewed him as the only inheritance her son had the decency to provide her with. It was the first time she'd met Tanya, and though she understood every word she was saying - she was a linguist at heart, not that she cared for such fickle organs - she took great pains to pretend she didn't. 

Nikiforov spent much of his childhood alone - he was fed when he needed to be fed, rocked when he cried but put down the moment he ceased - and saw about as much of his grandmother as he did his mother. He had his own wing, which was clean and large and marble, but echoing and gaunt. His early nightmares weren't of monsters under the bed, but empty corridors. 

By the time he was four years of age, he wanted human contact like he wanted air, clinging to maids with his ridiculous heart shaped smile (his father's, he was told) and deflating when they patted him on the head dismissively. This made something claw in his little chest, something a lot like defiance, but tinged with the vulnerability of the young and the abandoned. He devoted his time to developing the art of pouting in the mirror, perfected his stomp and eventually, began to venture into the forbidden fortress that was his grandmother's wing of the house. 

She was surprised and taken aback - it was almost as though she'd forgotten he was there - but had no idea how to tell him he wasn't welcome. It hadn't crossed her mind that discipline is a thing you need to do to children, which retrospectively, was all kinds of sad. 

He clambered onto her lap while she leafed through this and that, kicked his legs on the floor beside her and asked questions about every patch of sky and every blade of glass. 

She was most affronted to realise that instead of a money bag, she'd inherited a living breathing little boy who was unlikely to be quiet. 

Her annoyance grew and grew, as young Nikiforov watched with inquisitive eyes. He prodded more and more, as he realised what made her tick... What made her look up, and notice him. 

She truly hated spinning. So, he'd pirouette around the dining room, growing faster and faster. He learnt how to streamline himself so that his toes would squeak on the floor, and how to add an artistic flourish that would make her groan. 

Her growing impatience was glaring and bright, and Nikiforov watched with bated breath... Somehow, he knew that something better was on the horizon. 

He was returned to his mother on his sixth birthday, with only a fleeting glance and a grumbled instruction to, 'Put him in a dance class, unless you want to lose your sanity.'

With his mother, he lived in an equally enormous house, but stayed in her wing. Still marble, still cavernous, but somehow a lot warmer. She was big on appearances, shushing him when he was too loud in front of guests, and telling him when he was too much, but once the doors were closed, she loved him loudly and unapologetically. 

She put him in dance classes, iced his feet when he needed it, and encouraged beyond measure. This was his dream, born of a less than pleasant situation, and she'd nurture it until the incentive was left behind in favour of a clean, neat burning passion. 

A force for good. 

Instead of scolding him for spinning, she'd join him, teaching him that this is normal, this is a thing people do. 

 'Look! Mama's doing it! That means you can too!'

She spoilt him rotten, dressing him in fine clothes before he was old enough to appreciate it, then the finest once he was. They travelled to Venice and London and Rome, tasted the finest foods and laughed often. 

Nikiforov's childhood was, for the most part, lavish, extravagant and warm. So he couldn't for the life of him explain why the world felt so terrifying. He'd seen so much of it, far more than most would in a lifetime, but he felt like it was trying to suffocate him. He'd seen so much of it, yet so much was hiding. What didn't he know about? What was waiting around the corner to ambush and consume him?  

He grew his hair long because it would tether him to the ground, so that he wouldn't float away, then cut it short once it started to feel like a vice. He wondered what was wrong with him, and what he had too much of, or what was missing. 

He was happy, he knew but he wasn't electrified. Never peaked above jubilant into euphoric. He had many friends, but only one that he could shed the censors in front of. Only one that agreed to take him around the world until he felt like he'd seen enough, or could handle it himself. 

Still, he stayed in expensive accommodation. He'd never experienced life outside of marble and hand-soap. Ironed shirts and ruffles. 

Until he had. 

A childhood of lavish mansions and marble walls did nothing to prepare him for the raw euphoria of lying on a sofa in a cheap hotel room that smelt of crusted whiskey and smoke, with a beautiful man in a ripped shirt draped over him like an extra layer of skin. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... Back to the linear story. I'm continuing to have far too much fun with this, and hope some of you are sharing in at least some of my euphoria! Thank you so much for reading, I can't express enough how greatful I am. Comments would be much appreciated... Thanks again!

He was only supposed to walk him home. 

They'd spent time, a long time, a rotation of a clock hand then another idling through the still lives, eyes locked by spools of precious invisible silk. Undeniably, they'd dropped into a deeper level of intimacy. It was something about the low light, the shiny floors, the brush strokes upon brushstrokes lining the walls, being encased in other people's passion. Artists had left their souls in this empty shell of a building, and they were bleeding into the atmosphere, making it wet, and heavy and quiet. 

Their trailing footsteps were slow, and laced with the nibbling of lips and the gentle flutter of eyelashes. There was no hurry, Nikiforov realised, mind lingering in the tearing panic of his hotel room, and the image of Giacometti writhing on his bed as he dipped into what he was now quite comfortable in dubbing hysterics. 

Two fruit baskets, he thought absently, with a ghost of a smile. 

After the humidity of the gallery, the slicing breeze of the street was cutting and sharp. The light had fallen away, sun giving way to the moon as they'd sauntered scrutinising each other and the efforts of geniuses. A backdrop of black was smeared across the sky, with a croaking symphony of nocturnal animals and an undertone of rattling wagons. The stars were blinking, so plentiful that they took on the look of a crowd, and Nikiforov irrationally wanted to shout at them for intruding. They blinked on, the self indulgent little fools. 

Katsuki turned to him, emitting an impossible light by standing in a dark suit on a dark street, and Nikiforov tried very hard not to swoon on his feet. 

'You've been a wonderful guide, Nikiforov. I can't thank you enough.'

'I haven't shown you much.'

And Katsuki, the fiend, had the audacity to smile even wider, in a way that made his eyes sparkle and his cheeks tint. 

'Worlds, Nikiforov. You have shown me worlds.'

'And you lifetimes.'

The tint spread, bleeding down from his cheekbones into the rest of face and down his neck, and his smile turned to something small and modest. He clasped his hands together at his front, and glanced down at them, licking his bottom lip with a flick of his tongue. 

'Well... Goodnight then. Sleep well.'

Nikiforov blinked. 

'Oh...you too.'

'I know where you're staying,' he blurted quickly, a rapid shift from the closed off stature into skittish and childlike, 'And... Good god, that sounded odd. All I meant was... There's a chance that... We'll meet again. If you want to. If you invite me. Or... If I invite myself. But I wouldn't do that... That'd be-'

'I invite you! Any time you'd like. Any time you want to see the world.'

'I... Thank you. I suppose... Same time tomorrow?'

'Please.'

'Good.'

Katsuki gave what was intended to be a small parting smile, then turned on his elegant heel into the black street. Nikiforov's pining eyes watched his take a few steps, a sigh on his lips and water in his chest before he stopped suddenly, and turned back. 

'Ah.'

'Ah?'

'I haven't the faintest idea where I am.'

'Oh. Oh! Of course you don't. Silly... Silly, am I not?'

'Well... So am I.'

'I should have offered to accompany you home anyway... I believe that puts me higher up the foolishness hierarchy. Where do you need to be?'

'Spencer Road. I'm staying in a room there with a friend. But he's doing lord knows what tonight... Something to do with photography. Apparently he's found a wonderful group of people who have the faintest idea what an Autochrome plate is, and will indulge him for longer than I have the strength for.'

'Sounds intriguing. And confusing, as I suppose the most intriguing things are. Also, it's a very good job you noticed... Where you were headed is... Very the wrong way.'

Katsuki chuckled. 

'I might have guessed. A very good job indeed. I do apologise for keeping you out... It must be well out of your way, to take me.'

'Not at all. Giacometti may well think I've been arrested, but he tends to deal with any stresses that come his way by hiding in his bed sheets, so he shouldn't be in too much danger.'

'We can hope so,' Katsuki said with a warm smile that crinkled at the edges. 

Nikiforov held out a softly bent arm (which trembled as the empty space was filled, even if he wouldn't admit it even to himself) which Katsuki took gently.

'The perfect gentleman.'

'I try my best.'

***

It was a groaning building, leaning on its left neighbour rather like a sturdy elderly gentleman on his cane. Certainly not going to fall, but not going to straighten up either. The exterior walls were jagged, with shards of ragged brick jutting out from behind dark paint. The windows looked thin and shrunken, the frames waterlogged and shrivelling, with brown licking at the corners. In contrast, the front door was swollen and bending around its boundaries. Katsuki kicked its bottom corner as he shoved the handle down in a jolted movement. 

'You can come in if you'd like. I know it looks a little... Rustic, but-'

'I'd love to. Just for two minutes, if it suits you.'

Katsuki smiled and nodded rapidly, then stepped back to allow Nikiforov into the hollow corridor. He had to press against him in the darkened enclosed space in order to pull the door shut again, as Nikiforov's heart beat skyrocketed as he speculated it might if he were to perform a daring tightrope walking feat. 

He followed Katsuki down the hallway, until he stopped outside a green door with peeling paint, and began to fumble around in his pocket. He produced a small silver key, which emitted a melodic whine as he pushed it into the lock, and Nikiforov was once again astounded by how Katsuki appeared to produce art with his every inch and every movement. 

His room was small, very small with one bed in the corner, a sink in the other and a threadbare sofa against one wall. An equally threadbare blanket was draped over the sofa, which Nikiforov found his eye lingering on. Katsuki smiled sheepishly.

'Chulanont and I take turns with the bed, when we're both home. My turn for the bed tonight, I suppose.'

'Hmm.'

Nikiforov wasn't quite sure what else to say, words caught in his throat which was constricting from the intimacy of being invited into the slice of Katsuki's normalcy. He wondered how much he contributed to the drifting impression of whiskey in the air. How much of the smoke came from his lungs. How many of the discolourations on the wallpaper came from his fingertips. How many holes he'd worn into the blanket. It made his chest burn, the not knowing. 

'Giacometti and I have a bed each,' he said stupidly.

'Yes, I saw.'

Nikiforov nodded.

'It's a very nice room.'

Katsuki laughed. 

'No, it really isn't. But it could be a lot worse.'

'I promised to show you better.'

'You did. I look forward to it greatly. What was it? Libraries, theatres, butchers, bakers, blacksmiths-'

'I could show you something now,' said the fire in his chest and not his voice.

'You could? And what exact-'

And then there were lips in his mouth, and a hand on the side of his neck. A tickle of soft hair was brushing against his cheekbone. Closed eyelashes fluttered against his, still open, until they too closed, encasing Nikiforov's in a gentle embrace. His hand found its way to the small of his back, as he melted into the kiss, tongue beginning to explore but still shy enough not to probe, just to caress and encourage and indicate that this... Yes this is better than any theatre or butcher or baker. A hand was slipping towards his ribcage under his coat and easing it off. His eyes opened, to watch the gentle act as one might a professionally crafted opera. The fingers were delicate, dancing along his upper arms but not brave enough to try for the shirt yet. Making it so that he was just exposed enough to feel the sparks fly off Nikiforov's  skin and mingle with the fibres of his own. 

His own hands wandered now, guiding Nikiforov's coat off too, crimson scarf spilling out of the pocket to land in a puddle beside his feet. He gently pulled the vermillion from around his neck, and dropped it too onto the ground. The two shades were almost identical, and Katsuki, giggled lightly into Nikiforov's mouth, who pulled away just an inch. 

'What?' he breathed, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. 

'You're just... All sorts of wonderful and all kinds of confusing.'

Nikiforov widened the edges of his mouth into a beam, which he immediately attached onto Katsuki's. Both of their knees were growing shaky, wrought with adrenaline and the effort of exchanging electricity and passion, and they collapsed onto the rickety sofa. Katsuki's shirt ripped as he twisted around Nikiforov's body, and the poetic edge of his mind told him that the separation was symbolic... Today is the rip, yesterday the left and tomorrow the right. Forever changed by the relative stranger in his mouth who he'd known for a lifetime that spanned just a few days. 

The kissed until they couldn't anymore, due to the dreadful human necessity for oxygen, and Nikiforov threw himself back onto the armrest, pulling Katsuki down on top of him like his life depended on the contact. 

He figured that at this point, it likely did. 

'Viktor,' he breathed with damp eyes, 'Viktor Andreyevich Nikiforov.'

'Yuri Katsuki,' came a euphoric whisper, 'Wonderful to meet you, Viktor.'

'Sterling, Yuri.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... Thanks for getting this far in my Victorian adventure! I continue to have more fun than is probably healthy with this, my passion for melodramatic literature leaking out rather determinedly. I hope you're enjoying too! Thank you so much for reading, and comments would be much appreciated.

The hotel room door creaked on its hinges as Nikiforov threw it back and barrelled through it like a bullet from a gun. He flattened himself against it with his eyes shut and his head tossed back. 

'Oh. My. GOD.'

Chris looked up from his book slowly with raised eyebrows. 

'Good night then?'

'Giacometti, I fear that you gravely underestimate the gravity of what has occurred. The stars are rearranged, every colour on the visible spectrum brighter, every theory about how the universe came to be turned on its head. Shakespeare plays have gained an act wherein the lovers get their happy ending, weeds have flowered into roses and the sun shall never stop shining.'

'...very good night then?'

He sighed and threw himself back onto the bed, with moisture gathering behind his eyes. His mouth became a perfect grin. 

'The best,' came his breathy reply.

'Come on then,' Giacometti smirked, dropping his novel to the floor unceremoniously and crossing his legs, 'Enlighten me as to what was so earth shattering that you felt it was acceptable to abandon me.'

'Well-'

'Your best and oldest and most tolerant friend.'

'Well-'

'The one who listens to your questionable poetry and accompanies you to the most dreary corners of the globe-'

'Shut up!'

'Sorry,' he waved a hand, 'Go on.'

Nikiforov sat up and swung his legs over the bed, taking a deep breath before speaking excitedly, hands occupied by wild gesticulation which Giacometti watched with amused eyes. 

'First, I took him to a gallery, because he said he wanted to see colour, and he hadn't shown at the park the day before, so I figured that flowers probably weren't going to do it for him-'

'Low lighting and enclosed spaces. Excellent.'

'I thought so. So we went, and I didn't look at much art, because the most exquisite piece of artwork I had ever laid eyes on was there in the flesh, and breathing and three dimensional. He looked though, with eyes that could melt butter - and indeed, me - and I looked at him looking, and no theatre can ever hope to replicate what his movements were doing to my chest.  And then, while we were amongst an army of fruit bowls - I'm very glad I had something else to occupy my attention - he looked at me... Right at me! And it felt like he knew so much, but somehow like he was still looking. Like I was worth exploring. Really, I was incredibly proud of myself for remaining upright.'

'Somebody give the boy a medal,' Giacometti smirked. 

'Gold or nothing, naturally. So anyway, after that we said goodbye, in the street and I was quite ready to drown in the prospective space between us. As he was turning away, I felt sure that I'd wither away, but then, he turned back.'

'Ooh...'

Nikiforov paused at Giacometti's teasing expression, pressing his lips into a poorly masked sheepish line.

'Okay... He turned back because he was quite lost, but I felt certain that it had at least something to do with the fact that he couldn't bare for us to be apart either.'

'Of course it did, mon ami.'

'It did! And be quiet, I'm getting to the good bit. So, like the gentleman I am, I walked him home, and our arms were linked - they were LINKED Giacometti. He invited me up to his room, just for a minute, and it was a tiny room, only one bed for two and a sofa, but it smelt like him, and somehow felt like him, and then...'

He rubbed his hands together dramatically. 

'And then...'

'You're worse than Byron.'

'AND THEN... I was kissing him, kissing him in that room that smelt like him and felt like him. In that dark room with awful furniture and threadbare carpets. He was taking all of my breaths, holding them captive and I felt sure that that was it... That was the best life was ever going to be. But then I realised that there are so many days, so many days and that there's a possibility that I will see him in a large number of them, and that we'll be free to replicate that feeling again and again. My god Giacometti, I was alive. Why didn't you tell me how glorious it is to be in love?'

'Not sure I've been there yet, mon ami.'

'No? What about Garroway?'

'His personality didn't live up to his behind, I'm afraid.'

'Well, that is a shame. One day you'll find it, like I did. One day you'll find someone as impacting as a tropical storm, as destructive to the heart as a wave on a cliff, as booming as thunder, as... Um...'

'Running out of similes?'

'Never. Give me a moment. Um... As... Ah, as incredible as a hot day.'

'That wasn't a great one.'

'No, it wasn't was it. You do it then.'

Giacometti sighed heavily and dramatically, thrusting a hand over his chest.

'As you took such great pains to point out, I haven't got anybody to compose and gush about.'

'Aww...' Nikiforov leaped from his bed to Giacometti's like an excitable puppy, and gathered him into a rough hug, 'Getting lonely, young man?'

He hummed, 'And you're not helping.'

'Katsuki and I are going out again today... Come with us! We shall go somewhere exciting and well populated, where you'll be sure to find someone to capture your heart!'

'Really? I won't be intruding?' he asked with raised eyebrows.

'Well, you'd better not. No vulgarity, please. But other than that, of course you won't, oldest and dearest friend who listens to my questionable poetry and... Whatever else you claimed to do.'

'It'll be a great improvement on bad literature and worse liquor. Thank you.'

'Excellent! We should get dressed I suppose.'

'...have you slept?'

'Don't be absurd, of course I haven't.'

'Right... When are we meeting him?'

'Noon.'

'We have a few hours... It'd be rather a dampener if you literally fell at his feet,' he pulled the covers back pointedly.

'But...'

Giacometti gave him a stern look, and tilted his head towards the mattress. Nikiforov sighed, and toed off his shoes. 

'But I need to pick a scarf,' he mumbled glumly, sinking into the sheets. 

Giacometti rolled his eyes.

'Of course you do.'


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another outing on the horizon... I continue to indulge myself considerably. Thanks for coming back, if you're coming back and welcome of you're new! Comments would be much appreciated. Thank you!

'...and that was when he decided that it'd be a good idea to get drunk with the Foreign Secretary-'

'He's surprisingly good company. When he's blind and staggering. Also, shut up.'

'I'm getting to the good bit... So, by this point he's lost a good eighty per cent of his clothes-'

'Really shut up now.'

Katsuki chuckled. 

'Nikiforov, I love your rude friend,' he said fondly, signalling towards Giacometti with a tilt of his head. 

Giacometti barked out a laugh, and slapped Nikiforov on the back.

'And I'm getting rather attached to your frightfully blunt perspective lover.'

Nikiforov smiled smugly, and slipped a warm arm under Katsuki's gently. 

'He's remarkably perceptive,' he whispered onto the skin of his neck, then snapped his head back to regard Giacometti with a pout, 'Also, perspective?'

Katsuki pressed his lips into a small smile, 'You did tell him everything, did you not?'

He lowered his voice and snaked his arm from where it rested around Nikiforov's around his waist, pulling him into his side when his feet stumbled and he blinked twice in quick succession, 'Viktor?'

Nikiforov, recovered from his momentary swoon, grinned widely. 

'Nowhere near, darling.'

Giacometti snorted. 

'To be fair, he told me quite a lot. I just about coped. Anything else... I'm quite certain I don't want to know. Unless you're eloping. You're not eloping, are you?' 

Nikiforov laughed.

'Not yet. And be honest, you enjoyed it. I'm an excellent storyteller.'

'Excellent indeed. And slightly. Now, where are we going so that I can watch you two being enamoured with each other and sob into a whiskey about my crippling loneliness?'

'All in good time, my friend.'

'Oh please, surprises do make me quite anxious,' Katsuki whined, lingering fingers on Nikiforov's waist twitching.

'And you, my lover. You have nothing to fear with me by your side.'

'That's not quite how it works, but thank you all the same.'

'Admit you feel a little safer pressed against me?'

Katsuki's mouth quirked up softly, 'Undeniably.'

Giacometti sighed heavily.

'I'm so alone. Stop being in love.'

'Would you prefer poetry?'

'Continue being in love.'

Nikiforov let out a loud, raucous laugh. 

***

'Okay, why are we at the docks?'

Nikiforov raised his eyebrows at Giacometti, and rolled his eyes. 

'Your powers of deduction continue to astound me,' he draped a heavy arm around Katsuki's neck, 'You've already worked it out, haven't you? Restore my faith in the human mind, darling.'

Katsuki didn't reply, instead gazing around the throng of bustling people with wide, gaping eyes. His jaw was stuck somewhere between open and closed, and his cheeks were taking on the warm flush that made Nikiforov so weak. He felt the blush creeping up his own neck and colouring his face as he waited patiently for Katsuki to reply. After a considerable amount of time, which Giacometti spent glaring at Nikiforov with a petulant half-pout, he breathily responded. 

'I shall have to send Chulanont a letter.'

'When?' Giacometti whined. 

Katsuki tilted his chin up to meet Nikiforov's eye, with an expression that was close to awe-struck. He reached down and clasped the hand that wasnt dangling close to his collar bone in his own. Nikiforov melted into the warmth, and felt a shiver creep up his spine. 

'If I'm not much mistaken, Nikiforov, when we arrive in Paris.'

Nikiforov's ridiculous heart-shaped grin settled itself on his face, and he pulled Katsuki closer into his chest.

'You shall have to send Chulanont a letter when we arrive in Paris.'

***

'You left all your scarves behind,' Giacometti muttered against the whipping sea air, folding his arms around his torso with his feet extended in front of him. 

'You would have thrown them into the sea if I'd brought them. And they'll be there when we get back.'

'We're going back?'

'I'd say so.'

'You said you'd go back to Russia. Half a decade ago.'

Nikiforov sighed, and folded his hands behind his head. 

'Yes. I did. Then I didn't. But there was too much world in Russia, and not enough living. Yes, that's the problem with Russia. Too much world and not enough living. England, at the moment, has the opposite problem and I enjoy it immensely.'

'So why Paris?'

Nikiforov sighed again, but contentedly this time, and tilted his head to where Katsuki was peering over the railings at the rolling, spraying expanse of inky sea. The salty air was whipping his hair into sugar-dusted peaks, and his eyes were gathering a sparkling moisture at the corners from exposure to the elements, as his fingers gripped the barriers and grew white. 

'The city of love, mon ami. I'm going to find you love, and enjoy mine immensely.'

Giacometti let out a huffing laugh.

'I don't doubt the latter in the slightest, and hold out hope for the former.'


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paris adventures! My Wildeian boys continue to provide me with far too much fun. Wow. Thank you for coming back, if you're coming back and welcome if you're new! Comments would be much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

Paris was trying very hard to maintain the guise that it was no longer struggling, that it had clawed itself away from the gutter of the Paris Commune, and it was doing a remarkably good job. The Ministry of Finance was settling into its new home, the people were no longer at odds, and the city had an air of sophistication and serenity absent from the streets of England. The Eiffel Tower, young and novel appeared to radiate prosperity and order through the streets. 

Nikiforov rather preferred the chaos of stumbling England, but he wouldn't be in Paris forever. 

Giacometti still had a green tint to his skin, the sea having not been kind to him, and the train journey having been equally unkind to his system. He wore a rather spectacular scowl on his sunken and pale skin.

('If I meet the love of my life before we arrive,' he'd said doubled over the railings, halfway across the channel, 'And I vomit on his shoes, I'm jumping into the sea, and you're coming with me.'

'Always wanted to try open-water swimming.'

'I'm deadly serious.')

Katsuki, on the other hand, looked positively radiant. He'd managed to sleep both on the boat and the train, a feat that had been beyond his two travelling companions, and had arrived in Paris wide eyed and smiling gently. He knew not a word of French, so was absorbing the conversation around him like a sponge, indulging the rolling accents and lilting dialects without worrying about the inane details of knowing what it meant. 

Nikiforov was buzzing, electric energy surging through him in a strong current, and he felt quite certain he'd never sleep again. Katsuki had spent two lengthy journeys slumped against his shoulder, mouth agape and snoring softly with a contented, childlike expression on his face, and Nikiforov was completely enamoured. He found that the surge that came from their closeness didn't diffuse with time, instead growing like the flames of a roaring fire into a spectacular bonfire of warmth and intoxication and elation.  

Each time his eyelids dropped and his consciousness blurred into a tired limbo, his vision was coloured by flames and flowers and a smiling face. 

If he was to replace sleep with anything, Yuri Katsuki was high up on the list of options, he thought. 

Though this was a romantic principle, in practise it was less than, when he was tripping over cobblestones in the streets of Paris, dragged along by the fingertips by a man who had never been to the city before and had no idea what anyone was saying. Giacometti slouched a couple of steps behind, head bowed and pouting.

'Did you even bring any money?'

'Of course!'

'Is it the right kind of money!'

'Of course not!'

'So that's what we do first is it? Get some money.'

'I suppose so. Good thinking,' he grinned, while Giacometti raised his eyebrows. Katsuki was continuing to lead the way, through throngs of bustling people in impressive skills and velvets. 

'Do you have a plan?'

'A plan for what?'

'For... functioning. Eating, sleeping, washing...'

'As far as I know, Giacometti-'

'-what does that say?' Katsuki interjected, finger pointed towards a shop with the shining glazed eyes of a child, oblivious to the conversation.

'It's a sort of... Overly elaborate bakery thing. Now, as far as I'm aware, Giacometti, hotels supply all of those facilities.'

'But you don't know where any hotels are?'

'Of course not!'

'Right.'

'...you can find out,' he smiled innocently. 

'Oh for...'

'My French is dreadful, you know that.'

'Is that why you brought me here? To translate.'

'Of course not! You're my best and most trusted friend and I want you to find the love of your life in the city of love!'

'Thank you.'

'...and a little bit to translate.'

***

They did find a hotel, tall and expensive, and remarkably paid for with the correct currency. Giacometti threatened to book only one room and make them sleep in the bath, but repented once he realised that he'd have to be an audience to their ceaseless, honeymoon period affection and quickly ordered a second. 

What he wasn't expecting however was for Nikiforov to pull him aside in the corridor with a wild eyed panic staining his face. Katsuki was in the en-suite, freshening up his already painfully bushy-tailed self, leaving Giacometti and Nikiforov alone. 

'Did you do it on purpose?'

Giacometti frowned.

'What?'

'Giacometti!'

'No, seriously. What?'

Nikiforov sighed loudly, and threw his arms into the air. 

'One bed!'

Giacometti nodded slowly. 

'One bed.'

'One bed!'

'Is... Is that an issue?'

'Were you serious about sleeping in the bath? Have you ever done it, is it comfortable?' he asked manically, backing Giacometti into the wall.

Giacometti laughed breathily. 

'Why on Earth would you do that?'

'Well... One bed!'

Giacometti nodded slowly again, this time with a condescending smile. Nikiforov groaned, and performed a melodramatic twirl. 

'You don't understand! One bed, with Katsuki.'

Giacometti smirked a little, then his face softened when he saw that his friend was genuinely distressed. 

'You're not really worried about that are you? From what I gather, you've already spent a night... Close. And the journey... He was hanging off you.'

'Yes, but a bed is different isn't it? Entwined under the bed sheets, encased in cotton. Different! Intimate.'

'And you're afraid of intimacy?'

'Yes! No. I don't know. It's just... Fast.'

'And let's face it, whose fault is that?'

'Mine... Entirely mine, and I'm either a fool or a genius.'

'Both, definitely both.'

'Perhaps. But seriously, what do I do?'

'Don't sleep in the bath. Be brave.'

'Are you sure?'

Giacometti laughed. 

'No, of course not. You're the lovebird.'

Nikiforov froze, then nodded mechanically in quick succession. 

'Yes, I am, aren't I. It's only sleeping. Like you said. Yes.'

Giacometti nodded, then mellowed into the closest semblance of seriousness his personality could muster. 

'If you want to slow down, do that. I can re-book if need be. Don't do anything you're uncomfortable with... Or that he is, for that matter. But... Like I say. Be brave.'

Nikiforov sighed. 

'Brave.'

'The bravest.'

'What would I do without you?'

'Weep. Constantly.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... Welcome back, if you're back, and just welcome if you're new! Thank you for reading... Immense fun continuing to be had. The Paris Adventure™ continues! Comments would be much appreciated... Thanks again!

Nikiforov gazed into the bathroom mirror with hooded eyes, and ran a cold hand down his face. The wind was whipping past the window, sky dark and stars absent. The moon shone on determinedly, casting a soft shadow over everything it graced. There were bags gathering under his eyes, and his skin looked ghostly in the low light. His mouth was down turned with a dragging fatigue, and he simply couldn't coax the corners of his lips upwards, weighted by the eighteen or so hours of awareness. 

He groaned, more loudly than he'd intended, then clapped a hand over his mouth quickly when he noted the thinness of the door, and Katsuki's seated position on the end of the bed. 

He was about to share a bed with the most beautiful man in the universe, and he looked like he'd just been dragged out of a hedgerow after a grapple with a disagreeable badger. Surely he'd be so repulsed that he'd bolt from the room; surely he'd board the ferry back to England; surely he'd do everything in his power to forget the whole ordeal. 

Nikiforov was going to be forgotten. 

He groaned again, quieter this time, then began to run the tap and collected some water in his cupped hands. He buried his face in the cold, some of it ending up in his nose in his haste, then breathed out slowly into the basin. He scrubbed his face hard with a fluffy towel, dragging the tops of his cheeks down with his fingertips in a futile attempt to eradicate the bags, then gritted his teeth, and dropped it to the floor. 

Brave. 

Brave. 

He stepped out of the bathroom slowly, feet placing carefully in front of each other with calculated precision - the dancer in him slipping out in his nervousness. No recital or performance could rival this in its stakes. 

Katsuki was predictably breathtaking, lit up by the streaming light of the pale moon, chin tilted towards the window. His ankles were crossed where his legs were dangling from the bed, and his hands were folded into his lap. He smiled a small, contented smile with shyness creeping into the undertones when Nikiforov walked in, heels causing small creaks to emit from the floorboards. 

'Hello,' he said quietly and breathily, lips barely parting.

'Evening,' Nikiforov breathed back, arms making their way around his torso in an old nervous tick. He swallowed thickly, 'I... A minute. Give me a minute.'

And then he was crossing the room and slipping out of the door, barefoot and deaf to Katsuki's tiny, 'oh.'

He pressed his face into the closed door once he was on the other side of it, and groaned loudly and unashamedly this time.

***

'Help.'

'Are my inspiring speeches losing their impact? My, Nikiforov, you wound me,' drawled a distinctly unsurprised looking Giacometti, who was for some reason upside down on the armchair in the corner of the room, hair brushing the floor and feet hanging from the headrest.

'Will you brush my hair?'

He frowned at that, and swung his feet sideways, before shifting himself into an upright position with flushed cheeks from where the blood had gathered. He raised his eyebrows at his friend, who was regarding him wide eyed from the corner of the room. 

'You... Are going to bed? Because if you're sneaking out, I need to know whether to go with you because it's fun or stop you because it's dangerous and you'll kill yourself.'

'Bed.'

'Therefore you need brushed hair because..?'

Nikiforov shook his head incredulously, as though Giacometti was being profoundly blind, and he was the smartest person in an Oxford lecture hall. 

'Katsuki,' he said slowly and condescendingly, dragging out every syllable carefully as though he had little regard for if it would snap, then waved a hand around the area in front of his face, 'atrocious. Which I accept full blame for, before you say it, but if any aspect of it can be amended, that'd be rather smashing. I'm sure you've got some odd home remedies about how to get rid of eye bags, but frankly, I'm not in an experimental mood, and I have the feeling you're still a little bit annoyed at me for making you seasick, so... No thank you. So... Hair brushing it is. Please.'

Giacometti, blinked at him a couple of times, then nodded slowly.

'There's a brush in the bathroom. Not mine, so of course, inferior quality but...' Nikiforov was already in the bathroom, and the sound of clinking bottles rattled from beyond the open doorway, '...I get the impression you're not too concerned.'

He emerged a moment later, and sat cross legged at Giacometti's feet, thrusting a wooden brown brush backwards, which he fumbled to catch against Nikiforov's anxious fingers. 

He gathered the ridiculously long fringe between his fingers, and ran the brush through it slowly, then made quick work of the rest. He sat the brush on the floor and then sat back in the chair. Nikiforov didn't move for a long moment, then shuffled around to meet Giacometti's gaze with a frown.

'Is that it?'

Giacometti nodded, 'Admittedly, it may have taken longer if you still had the wonderfully dramatic, Shakespearian waterfall hair, but between us, I get the impression that if I didn't know you well enough for you to have lost all integrity and appeal in my eyes, you'd be positively radiant.'

Nikiforov snorted, 'I haven't slept for eighteen hours.'

'Nor have I. Are you disputing my ravishing good looks?'

'Never. But seriously-'

'Seriously! Bravery! Honestly, he's as smitten as you. Just... More subtle about it. He looks at you like you keep the stars in the palm of your hand.'

Giacometti threw his hands into the air exasperatedly. 

'For god's sake... Go and get into bed with him!'

Nikiforov looked at him wide eyes for a moment, then steeled his gaze. 

'I will. Yes. I will.'

'Good.'

A moment passed.

Giacometti sighed. 

'You're not moving.'

'Am I not?'

'No.'

'Well, isn't that a shame.'

He groaned. 

'Do I have to carry you?'

'No, no. No. I'm going. Look,' he uncrossed his legs, and stood slowly. He took a couple of halting steps towards the door, then turned back to Giacometti pointedly, 'This is me going.'

'Yes, it's wonderful.'

He turned his head back to the door. 

'I appear to have stopped.'

Giacometti slapped his palm into his forehead, then stood, huffing sufferingly. He marched up to Nikiforov, and wrapped his arm under his knees with a scowl on his face. Nikiforov promptly squealed, and leapt out of his grasp.

'I haven't stopped, I haven't!' he said loudly, grappling with the door handle. 

'So you haven't. Have an excellent night,' he smirked.

'And you,' Nikiforov replied flatly, head peeking through the thin gap in the door. 

***

Katsuki was stood by the window when he returned to the room, still dressed in his clothes from the day, as was Nikiforov. A shopping trip was in order once the sun was up. His arms were crossed, and his feet placed neatly together. He turned at the sound of the door, and smiled the same soft smile as earlier. 

Nikiforov melted. 

'I'm back,' he whispered, heart taking up residence somewhere near his knees from the fullness it had gained. 

'So you are,' Katsuki whispered back. He took a couple of steps forward, nibbling on his lip, then gestured towards the bed, 'Sleepy?'

'Yes, rather.'

'Then I suppose we should...'

'Yes.'

Nikiforov slipped under the crisp sheets on the right side, and pulled them up to his chin. Katsuki did the same on the left, and both arranged themselves stiffly on their backs, eyes locked on the ceiling. Silence prevailed for a moment, stiff with the weight of both being awake, before Katsuki broke it by speaking in a hushed tone. 

'Where did you go.'

Nikiforov considered lying, but didn't think he could muster the strength. 

'I was talking to Giacometti.'

'About?'

'My hair.'

Katsuki chuckled. 

'Of course you were.'

Nikiforov licked his lips. 

'My hair... In relation to you. What you think about my hair. And about... Me.'

Nikiforov's head was stuffed with the suggestion that perhaps Katsuki was as painfully smitten and dizzyingly lovestruck as he was, and he needed to let it leave his head. It spilled out onto the sheets next to him, he could almost feel it, with its sticky wetness, rife with implications. 

Katsuki just smiled, and somehow though he wasn't looking, Nikiforov could feel it.

'I think your hair is wonderful. Breathtaking. Ethereal. Though not quite as breathtaking, wonderful, or ethereal as the rest of you.'

Nikiforov felt as though the breath was knocked out of him. He was winded, and choked, and elated. Katsuki continued to do this to him, he wondered how he had so much power, and wondered if he'd feel this way forever. Head spinning, trapped above the clouds, he rather hoped so. 

Although hopefully, he'd develop the ability to be able to formulate relevant and appropriate replies. 

Not yet though.

'I'd never seen the umbrella before in my life.'

Katsuki laughed a loud, surprised laugh into the quiet darkness of the room.

'What?'

'The one you returned to me. It's not mine. I just... Well... I saw you at the gathering. And you were the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen. And I told Feltsman about you the next day and... Well. He's a good man, if ever there was one.'

Katsuki laughed breathily.

'...the most wonderful,' he said wistfully, half a question in his voice, as though he couldn't quite believe it. 

'The most wonderful,' Nikiforov repeated confidently. 

Katsuki sighed deeply, and turned onto his side to be facing Nikiforov. He swallowed, and shut his eyes for a second, then did the same. They were so close, and so warm, and so mellowed by sleepiness and sentimentality. 

They lay there, for several long moments, just watching each other and blinking languidly, bleary eyes tracking the minuscule movements of the other, before Katsuki bit his lip tentatively, then shuffled forwards a little more. 

He closed the space between their lips deliberately and tentatively. The kiss was gentle and sweet, tasting like mint and spoken truths and home. It was brief, but not rushed, because it didn't need to be long. They were close enough already, wrapped in cotton, and unashamedly melodramatic affection. 

But now, they were soft and quiet, as the moon shone on sympathetically. 

'Goodnight,' Katsuki whispered with a small, fatigued grin, broken away but still only inches from his face. 

'Goodnight,' Nikiforov replied equally as quietly, eyes clouded with awe. 

Katsuki's eyelids fluttered closed delicately, and he looked so very contented that Nikiforov thought he'd never sleep again, and that he'd never be able to look away. 

He could and he did, just.

Until, that is, until an unintelligible young hour of the morning, when he awoke to limbs wrapped around his own and a nose pressed into his neck. He found that his arms were wrapped around a warm torso and that his whole body was alight. 

He grinned widely, and gripped tighter, as a very much asleep voice mumbled, 'Viktor,' against his skin. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Thanks for coming... I apologise if the update after this one is a little late... I'm going to be in a field for a few days... oh joy. But I certainly hope you enjoy this chapter, and comments will be much appreciated. Thanks again!

Sun streaming through a window in a marble mansion on the outskirts of Lyon is cold, especially when you're five years old and the maid won't be arriving for another three hours, and she'll be gone in four, and your grandmother is doing her best to ignore you. 

Sun streaming through a window in a marble mansion in the centre of St Petersburg is a little warmer, especially when your mother is downstairs and she's singing a pretty song, but the house is big, and echoes, and it's a rather enormous world outside of it, and you're still not sure what to think about that.

Sun streaming through a window in Copenhagen is sharper, like an awakening but not unpleasant, even when your feet are bleeding, and you're facing a day of turning and jumping and leaping and smiling and smiling and smiling because a fair portion of those smiles are real. 

Sun streaming through a window in Prague, or Salzburg, or Rome, or Berlin is frightening and exhilarating, but more of the latter when your best friend is across the room and there is a cacophony of possibilities itching to get ahold of you. You wake with a rattling head, wanting to leave bits of yourself all over the world, and alive with the jarring realisation that it's entirely possible that you will. 

(And you can't help but want someone to kiss you goodnight once the day is though.)

Regardless of which window the morning sun is shining through, it's the same sun. Blazing and grounding and comforting. It watches over the people on Earth, it gives their impossible species something to function off, and yet it's functionality isn't what makes it beautiful.

Sun streaming through a window in Paris is perfect.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Nikiforov tipped his head down, to gaze at the top of a dishevelled scalp, hair tickling the bottom of his chin gently. Silken eyelids were draped over his deep, dark eyes, and his soft lips were elongated into a subtle, sleep mellowed smile. His cheeks were tinted pink, and his head heavy, an exquisite paperweight rested on Nikiforov's bare chest. 

He smiled, and kissed the top of Katsuki's head.

***

'I told you it'd be fine!'

'Yes, yes, you're a wealth of information.'

'You'd best repay me today.'

'And I take it nothing more than a dashing stranger will do.'

'Nothing more than a dashing stranger with perfect skin and rippling biceps.'

Nikiforov snorted. 

'I'll try my best.'

Katsuki emerged from the bathroom where he'd been shaving, rubbing his damp hands down his thighs and chuckling.

'Still feeling lonely?'

Giacometti groaned dramatically, and threw himself down onto the double bed.

'More than you can possibly imagine.'

Nikiforov sat down next to him with a grin, and pulled Katsuki into his lap, who let out a rather undignified squeal. Nikiforov rested his head on his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around his torso. 

'Hear that, darling? Giacometti's feeling lonely.'

Katsuki chuckled, and placed a loud, smacking kiss onto Nikiforov's forehead. 

'Is that so, dear? What a dreadful shame.'

He locked their lips with a smirk, leaving space between them this time so that they were a little less intimate, and a little less affirming. Undeniably in love, but with an audience. 

Giacometti flipped onto his stomach and buried his face into the bedsheets with a guttural grown.

An audience, so to speak. 

They broke away from each other, giggling and Giacometti waited a moment before lifting his head a fraction.

'Okay... okay. Not only are you two doing your utmost to ruthlessly taunt me, but you also both smell dreadful. Sorry, Katsuki, I know it's his fault for dragging us across the ocean without a warning or a change of clothes, but you're undeniably feeling the effects-' 

'You, of course smell wonderful,' Nikiforov said flatly.

'Naturally. So I propose a shopping trip before I simply die from your ceaseless happiness.'

'Dreadful, isn't it?'

'Unbearable.'

***

'Nowhere near the scarves. I'm warning you.'

'Katsuki likes the scarves! Right?'

Katsuki smiled a muted, beaming smile in the shining mid morning light. 

'The scarves are wonderful, but I fear from the tone of his voice that Giacometti may throttle you with it if you buy one.'

'Entirely possible,' he probed his nose into a display of silky crimsons and velvet purples and quirked up the corner of his mouth, 'But I'm willing to take the risk.'

Giacometti shook his head. 

'On your head be it. I refuse to be responsible for my actions.'

Katsuki snaked his arm around Nikiforov's waist, and rested his head on his shoulder. His other arm was weighed down by a bag, filled with expensive and decadent fabrics, vibrant and frilly and distinctly not mid-morning Parisian.

'Why all the colour?' he whispered into his earlobe, 'It's not entirely... practical for a day of tourism and idling the streets of Paris.'

His voice was soft and impassive, verging on innocent but his eyes were shining, as though he knew exactly the implications.

'Ah, my darling, they are entirely practical,' he grinned, 'for tonight.'


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Sorry again that I'm late... The field was fun... Guess who managed to fall off a stile into a bog and get heatstroke in the rain! Haha. Ha. Ha. Anyway, thank you so much for reading, it truly means the world, and I would adore it if you could comment. Thanks again!

'Why am I drunk?'

'Sixteen champagne flutes.'

'Ah.'

Nikiforov grinned a sloppy grin as Katsuki buried his nose into the skin of his neck, hanging off him like a vine, still standing and only half conscious. He shifted his slender arms, and tightened his grip, burrowing closer against Nikiforov under burning lights and secure in the hefty weight of decadent people having the time of their lives. 

'That does make you drunk, doesn't it? Lots of alcohol.'

'Yes, dearest, it does.'

He giggled.

'Why didn't I think of that earlier?'

'Couldn't possibly comment.'

The ballroom was large and echoing, hollowed by pillars of carefully crafted wood and adorned with velvet drapes. Candles flickered, and lamps buzzed, casting beacons of dulled light onto the varnished floors. Gaping windows made up the ceiling, crystalline and shining. Through them, fireflies dotted like overexcited stars who couldn't quite make up their mind which patch of sky to make a home in. The moon was large and glowing, the rest of the sky inky and deep, as though the writer who'd spun the lyrics of the universe had waxed his passion too violently and snapped the end of his pen. Tentative tendrils of sunlight were just beginning to spill over the horizon, but were reluctant to climb. 

The world was still turning, just very slowly. It didn't need to make itself known just yet. 

The heat was encompassing but not oppressive, caressing the cheeks of the weaving figures, and creeping under their skin. The sheer volume of people within the space, and the gravity of body on body on body on body meant that the air was moist and weighty, clouding people's minds and lungs so that their inhibitions were dulled. But the constant collisions, shrieking laughs and violent spikes in conversation ensured that the senses were, in turn, sharpened. 

Brains were encouraged by the ears to swoon at a dip in the violinist's tone to something heartfelt and somber, and hearts incentivised to race at a passionate spike. Eyes clouded over if the piano player's fingers saddened, and lips extended into raucous grins if they overspill end with euphoria. Noses were tickled with the smoke of tiny dancing flames and tongues became looser with each flute of champagne. 

The champagne appeared to be the main attraction, set up at the front of the ballroom on an expansive table, with impressive silver candlesticks strategically arranged to frame the elaborate and meticulous display. It was yellow, and bubbling, made to appear attractive to the masses, and Katsuki certainly hadn't resisted. 

He was an advertiser's dream, truly. 

Intoxicated, he was a wonder. Messy and uncoordinated and staggering, with glazed over eyes and drooping lips. Cheeks painted red, and silken clothes ruffled, he was simply beautiful. 

Nikiforov had felt as though the gods had singled him out, as Katsuki had spent the night pressed into his chest, clinging to him as he slowly wilted under the alcohol and lost all self control. His legs moved like tendrils of ivy, and as though Nikiforov were a wall he simply had to climb. He appeared determined for his warm body to melt into Nikiforov's, and he had absolutely no complaints. 

And once the dance had started, the booming instruments swelling between the shiny wooden walls, my God had he been in his element. Wrists tied together, as through they'd always been that way, tethered by an impenetrable force. The way they weaved and the way they waltzed, constantly in time and constantly in love.

They were surrounded by people and the only ones there. 

Many times did they get tangled, and fewer did they attempt to free themselves, limbs bound to torsos and feet stumbling over each other. 

Nikiforov the dancer was acting clumsier than he ever had, and he loved it. 

As Kastuki nuzzled into his chest, with drooling lips and a sloppy smile, it briefly crossed his mind that he hadn't seen Giacometti for a while. 

He decided that the possibilities of that being a good or bad thing were in equal measure, and also that at the present moment, he didn't particularly want to leave to find out.

***

Nikiforov somehow managed to wrestle Katsuki up a flight of steel steps, with his knees fooled over his arms, and onto the roof of a large, white office building that was reflecting the tentative rays of sun. 

His eyes were glazed with a salty film, but slightly clearer than they had been earlier, sharpened by the light biting wind above the horizon. Paris stretched out beneath them, flickering lights indicating people slowly succumbing to the turning of the Earth, and low chatter in foreign tones spreading out over the ground. 

It crossed Nikiforov's mind that perhaps he shouldn't find them foreign.

Katsuki's head lolled on Nikiforov's shoulder, eyes wide, but lids twitching, and younger just spelling over the right side of his mouth. Nikiforov snaked an arm around his waist, and pressed his lips against his ear. 

'I used to live here.'

'Oh?' said a sleepy voice.

'Hmm. Well. Nearly. Lyon.'

'Is Lyon pretty?'

'Not as pretty as here. Not as pretty as you.'

A contented smile, and Katsuki pressed closer. 

Then, a pause, that wouldn't be heavy if Nikiforov weren't feeling the pull of tiredness, and the cloud of memories he didn't especially want. There was a beautiful boy pressed against his side, and the weather was wonderful, and he'd just had the time of his life, dancing with him in silks and velvets, yet still he licked his lips, and let out a less contented sigh than Katsuki's.

'My grandmother didn't like me much.'

'...oh.'

'I don't think she liked many things. But... Me especially.'

'Oh,' Katsuki sat up, and folded his legs over Nikiforov's, shuffling closer so that they were entangled with their noses touching lightly. His eyes were clouded with saltiness of a different kind, 'That's sad. And I don't like sad, especially not with you in it.'

'Sorry.'

'Don't say sorry! Just... Remember that tonight was amazing... How do you find these places?.. And that I'm very happy, and also very drunk and probably saying the wrong things, and that I like you enough for your grandmother and every other fool that doesn't.'

'Thank you.'

He stroked an uncoordinated finger across Nikiforov's cheekbone, and he craned his head towards it.

'God, I pity them. Who wouldn't want to know you?'


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! The Paris adventure continues! Thank you so much for coming along on my self-indulgent ride... I hope you're having fun! Thank you very much for reading, and comments would be much appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

'Nikiforov, you disappoint me!'

'Good morning to you too. Also, be quiet, he's likely to be... Delicate,' Nikiforov nodded down to the sleeping form on his chest, drool gathering at the corners of his mouth and a slosh of champagne staining his rumpled shirt. They were folded into an armchair that was groaning under the weight of two grown men, Katsuki's arms folded around his legs with his knees pushed into his chin, and Nikforov's legs cradling him from their propped up position on a small, wooden table. 

'You didn't keep him in check then?'

'Where's the fun in that? I also didn't keep you in check. How did that go?'

Giacometti groaned, and threw himself onto the bed face down.

'That bad? How many hearts did you break?'

He lifted his head pitifully. 

'You misunderstand. By your definition... Not nearly bad enough.'

'Oh?' Katsuki shifted his weight, and very nearly toppled off Nikiforov's lap. He hooked his arms around his ribcage, and locked him firmly against his torso as he wriggled and hummed contentedly, 'Why's that then?'

'I charmed the life out of a veritable crowd of people, and not one of them was the slightest bit interested! Good god, I walked the streets for hours. Every single public house, everywhere that looked as though it had some life to it... Once or twice I thought I was getting somewhere.. Even a kiss or two, but do you know what came after? One smiled and left, the other told me to get a breath mint! By the way, I don't smell do I?'

'Well, we all smell a bit.'

'Me more than most?'

'I wouldn't say so, no.'

'Thank you. Then what on earth was the problem?'

Nikiforov frowned, and tilted his head in what he hoped was a contemplative expression.

'Did you restrict yourself to rippling biceps?'

Giacometti scoffed.

'Why, of course!'

'Well, my friend, perhaps widen your criteria!'

'I was joking, Nikiforov.'

'Jokes lie in truth.'

Giacometti sighed, and sat up on the bed, folding his legs under each other.

'Perhaps I do have... High standards.'

'Perhaps.'

'But I'm beautiful!'

'Of course.'

'And I don't smell.'

'Not in the slightest.'

'You're saying I should... What?'

'I don't know what I'm saying! You should... I don't know, learn to look at the eyes before the biceps,' he waggled a knowing forefinger in the air above Katsuki's lightly snoring head, 'It's all in the eyes. You might see something that seizes your heart, makes it soar out of proportion, something more than biceps, better than biceps, makes you forget that biceps ever existed!'

'Stop saying biceps.'

'Biceps, biceps, biceps. There. Now you're so annoyed with biceps that you'll never think of them again!'

'Ingenious,' he said flatly, 'Eyes it is then. I expected to have a lover by now, you know?'

'Cupid works in mysterious ways.'

'You said you'd be my Cupid.'

'And do I not mystify you?'

'Constantly,' he drawled, levels of dryness reaching Saharan. 

'I managed to get myself quite the exquisite creature, did I not,' he told the ceiling with glazed over eyes, as Kastuki continued to burrow into him like a woodland animal.

'That was mostly Feltsman and umbrella-based deception.'

'And my unyielding charm.'

'That too.'

***

'I'm glad you're happy darling, but do you think you could be a little more subtle about it, at least until I've eaten an extensive amount of fatty foods?'

'Dearest, when you're around, I lose all capacities capable of subtlety.'

'Hmm. I'd never have noticed. And most of the time, it's wonderful, but I'm a fool who overindulges in champagne, so not at the present moment.'

'I'll admire you quietly then.'

'Thank you.'

He pressed his forehead into the table, and folded his hands around the back of his head, while Nikiforov rested his elbow on the table and his hand on his chin, gazing at Katsuki with enamoured eyes. 

'I can hear you staring,' came a mumble.

'I'm being quiet.'

His state was an enormous improvement from what it had been. On awakening, he'd mumbled something incomprehensible about hunger and regret, then rolled unceremoniously off Nikiforov's lap onto the floor. Nikiforov, ever the optimist, had scooped him up, and all but carried him to the nearest restaurant, a more mellow than usual Giacometti trailing at his heel. He was currently placing their order, which did, indeed, include an extensive amount of fatty foods. 

Nikiforov averted his eyes from the near-catatonic but still ethereal being draped over the table to his friend at the counter, and watched as he fumbled with the money and shifted from foot to foot. His shoulders were twitching, and his posture appeared a little sloped, and when he turned his head back to the room for a split second, Nikiforov thought he was the ghost of a blush on his cheeks. He frowned. 

It was on the unsure legs of a young gazelle that he returned to the table, face ashen and eyebrows high. 

'What?' Nikiforov asked with his lips settled into an inquiring line. 

Giacometti turned slowly back towards the counter, where a young tall-ish, slim man with head full of red hair and marble skin was smiling politely at a blonde lady. He had a mouthful of teeth, and a smattering of freckles dashed across his cheekbones. He was long, and lanky in quality, arms locked into parallel lines as he propped himself up against the counter. His shirt was crisp and ironed, rolled up to the elbows. 

It was with the wild expression of an animal that Giacometti turned back to Nikiforov.

'What?' he demand again, this time with more urgency.

'Do I smell love?' Kastuki mumbled into the table. 

'I hate it when you're right, Nikiforov,' he threw his arms into the sky dramatically, 'Eyes!'


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Operation get Chris a boyfriend is officially go! Thank you so much for reading, and comments would be adored. Hope you're having fun!

'Wear a scarf.'

'No.'

'Oh, go on. Dashing men love scarves. Do they not, darling?'

Kastuki grinned, pearly teeth creeping smugly from behind his lips. 'This one does.'

'See! Come on, you're supposed to be compiling an armada of seduction tactics. Charm, appeal and allure we'll work on late. But for now... Scarves.'

'You're useless.'

'I'm useless...' He wrapped his arms around Katsuki, who continued to smile, and closed his own arms around Nikiforov's torso, 'And in love.'

'Hmm. I question your lover's sanity,' Giacometti said from the corner of his mouth, words wet with a half-resigned, half-panicked desperation. 

Katsuki laughed. 

'Sanity is a construct. An overrated one at that. Though I will admit, the scarf was only a very small part of what made me fall for you. I'm rather close to certain that Giacometti's romantic advancements would not be rejected on the sole reason of a bare neck.'

Nikiforov scoffed, and shuffled away from Katsuki's grasp to rest his chin on his fist petulantly. 'Neither of you have an ounce of taste.'

'Perhaps not. Now... Charm, appeal and allure you said. Charm I can do-'

'Spare vulgarity, mon ami.'

'Naturally. Appeal... You said I didn't smell, right?'

'Right... Though I would recommend a bath before approaching him. Really...' He closed his eyes and nodded decisively, '...maximise the nasal appeal.'

Giacometti put a hand to his forehead and sighed. 

'Maximise the nasal... So essentially I smell?'

'More than you did this morning.'

'Excellent.'

Katsuki shook his head despairingly between Giacometti and Nikiforov, but wore half a smile. He mounded it into pursed lips, before looking pointedly at Nikiforov, then addressing Giacometti.

'You smell fine. Don't listen.'

Nikiforov waggled a finger, 'Not quite seduction fine. You wish to maximise your chances, do you not?'

'Maximise my chances and my nasal appeal. Frankly, my friend, I would bathe in rose petals.'

Nikiforov perked up, eyes alighting and small grin manifesting.

'I'm certain I could find some, given an hour or two-'

'Oh no, you are not leaving this room!'

'Why not.'

'Katsuki, sit on him please.'

Katsuki blinked twice, with a furrowed brow, then still wearing an impassive frown rose slowly from the bed and deposited himself carefully on Nikiforov's lap. He pouted into his shoulder blades, as Giacometti spoke. 

'If... And it's a remarkably possible if... He happens to go outside, and do something remarkably stupid - public nudity, disturbing the peace, altercation involving an angry pigeon, take your pick - and word gets back to my mystery man that 'the silver-haired oddball that was hanging around with the dark haired man, and the devilishly handsome blonde who I was considering making the acquaintance of but have decided against due to the strange beings he associates himself with' has made a fool of himself...' The back of his hand fluttered to his forehead melodramatically, and he sighed heavily, 'My life shall not be worth living.'

'If I promise to behave-'

'You'll manage it by accident, I'm certain.'

Nikiforov let out a whine from the back of his throat, 'You give me no credit.'

'I give you as much credit as you earn. Which - yes - is none.'

Katsuki snorted out a laugh. 

'Can I get off him now? Or at least readjust?'

Giacometti raised his eyebrows.

'Promise not to jump out of the window?'

'For now.'

'Hmm.'

Giacometti stroked the space where a long beard would be if he neglected his razor, like an aged professor who has neglected all function but brainwork, as though contemplating a major feat. Then he narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly. Katsuki shuffled off Nikiforov's lap to sit beside him, but scooted around to hook his legs over his thighs, and lay back onto the bed. 

'What was the last thing on the list? Allure?'

Nikiforov waved a dismissive hand.

'Oh, you're fine. Just... Stick out a hip and do a thing with your eyes.'

'A thing with your eyes?'

'Yes, yes, you know. Sort of like hooding them and squinting but in a deliberate way.'

'Oh, you mean sex eyes?'

'Of course I mean sex eyes.'

Katsuki snorted again, and Nikiforov took great pleasure in the fact that he was no longer trying to stifle them. He beamed down at him quickly, before turning back to Giacometti.

'But I don't think I want it to be a sex eyes relationship. I've tried those, and they're always fun, and quick and... Boring. I want to try a bookshop relationship, a theatre relationship, a-'

'A Katsuki and Nikiforov relationship?'

Giacometti sighed wistfully. 'It pains me to say it, but yes... I suppose so. Without umbrella-based fiendishness and the intervention of strangely amicable nobility.'

Nikiforov laughed. 

'Oh come on, they were the best bits!'

Katsuki sat up, with a solitary raised eyebrow. 'The best bits?'

'Nowhere near. The kissing was excellent,' Nikiforov smiled without missing a beat.

Katsuki lowered his eyebrow slowly and grinned. 'I'm glad.'

Giacometti clicked his fingers twice in quick succession. 'Gentlemen... I'm having a crisis here. How do I express that I am incredibly attracted to this man, but want to sit in coffee shops with him for a while and talk about flowers rather than jumping straight to clashing teeth?'

Nikiforov thought for a moment, and Katsuki watched him. 

'Say that. Just say that.'

'I hate you.'

'Seriously! Maybe not the teeth clashing bit, but just... Be direct! Go up to him, and tell him that you'd rather like to get to know him. Suggest going to a coffee shop, if that's what's occupying your mind, and take it from there! At least that way, you'll know. And if he rejects you, we can all get drunk, and talk about how awful he is, and how he doesn't deserve such a fine specimen of a man, and Katsuki and I shan't even cuddle in front of you. Right, Katsuki?'

'Spot on.'

'But...' Giacometti whined pitifully, 'Directness is scary.'

'So are lions. And are they not the most majestic things to lay eyes on?'

'Did you just compare asking a man out for coffee to a wild beast?'

'See! Now it sounds silly to be afraid.' 

'Go on, go and get in the bath. If I thought you'd listen, I'd say that you need none of this fuss, none of our help and that your shining personality will be enough to knock him off his feet if you two are compatible, but instead...' He stood up, disentangling himself from Katsuki's legs, and took Giacometti by the shoulders, 'I shall forcefully steer you into the bathroom, and tell you to take some deep breaths before you approach him.'

He shut the door on Giacometti's bemused face, and waited for the click of the lock. When it sounded, he nodded, satisfied and said, 'I'll pick you out a scarf while you're in there!'

A noise between a groan and a roar echoed through the room.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! This is a short one, but things are... Decided. Aherm. I hope you're having fun, and please do comment if you feel so inclined! Updated might be a little slow next week... Exam week fun times, so I apologise in advance. Thank you again for reading!

Nikiforov licked a stray drop of whiskey from his lip, then ran his thumb along his mouth. He was floating comfortably above drunk, in the area marked tipsy with a pleasant fuzz settled over his mind and a soft pink tint to his surroundings. Someone was playing the piano in the restaurant below, he imagined in a white jacket with tails that trail on the floor, and it was cutting above the low level chatter softened by the walls and ceiling. The curtains were open, window framing the dark sky as though it were a masterpiece and shining moon stark against the cutting black. 

He was lying on his back, lavish carpet cushioning him, with his arms elongated by his sides. His feet were bare and his shirt untucked, riding up to expose a small expanse of his pale abdomen. Eyes trained on the ceiling, he smiled softly and let his fingers creep to his right to entwine with another set of fingers. Katsuki's wrapped around his with clumsiness and a shred of urgency. He too lay on his back, feet socked and top few buttons of his shirt open. He'd been more tentative with the whiskey than Nikiforov, following his spectacular ailment that morning, and couldn't truthfully claim to be even tipsy. 

He sighed contentedly and edged closer, pressing against Nikiforov's side, and pulling their closed hands onto his stomach. Nikiforov smiled softly. 

'He's been gone for a long time.'

'Indeed. Is that likely to be good?'

'Lord knows. Either they've drunk a lot of coffee, he changed his mind about taking it slowly and they're doing unspeakable things, or he's managed to get himself arrested or kidnapped.'

'Is it worth checking the police station?' Kastuki asked, a smattering of amusement staining his words.

Nikiforov waved his free hand in the air dismissively. 'If he's not back by morning. And the hovels for that matter.'

'How well acquainted are you with Parisian hovels?'

'Not as well as you may have believed.'

Katsuki laughed. 'You disappoint me.'

'Never.'

Katsuki pursed his lips to hide a small grin and unlocked their hands. He rolled onto his side so that his face was mere centimetres from Nikiforov's, and planted a quick kiss onto his cheek, catalysing an upward quirk from the corner of his mouth.

'No. You're right. Never. Never, never, never.'

'Oh, you do flatter me darling. In all seriousness though, I hope he's having fun. He's a complete and utter fool, overbearing and irritating and he deserves all the happiness in the world.'

Katsuki smiled. 

'He'll find it. If not here, somewhere else.'

'I know. It can't come soon enough though.' He too rolled onto his side to face Katsuki, and pressed their noses together, then said lowly, 'I don't want him to feel left out, because I'm certainly not toning it down with you for his sake.'

Katsuki giggled, light and jovial, and lifted his hand to stroke along Nikiforov's cheekbone. 'I'm glad. Me neither.'

'No? Not at all?'

'Not at all?'

'Not at all.'

Nikiforov bit his lip, and swallowed hard and quickly. He shut his eyes for a quick second, feeling a heaviness settle over the room, just for a second. Below, the piano had turned to something deep and swooning. The chatter had silenced further. There was a bubbling fear building up in his chest, and a bubbling excitement. He wasn't going to miss this moment. He wasn't. The universe was conspiring with him. He wasn't going to ruin everything. 

He wasn't. 

He opened his eyes slowly.

'And how does that... Manifest itself?'

There was a pause, then Katsuki sucked in a breath, sharp and urgent. His mouth began to paint itself into a grin, and his eyes took on a mischievous quality. 

'Why, Viktor,' he whispered, 'Could those be the infamous sex eyes?'

'...perhaps.'

'Good lord.'

Nikiforov licked his lips nervously.

'Are they... Well received?'

Katsuki raised his eyebrows, then pushed himself up onto the heels of his hands and filed his legs underneath himself to stand. He stalked over to the window slowly.

'Well... Let me see. We're alone, it's a beautiful night, and we are very much in love, if I'm not mistaken. This is the city of love, there's a pretty song playing downstairs, so I'd say...' He took the curtains in his hands and pulled them shut in one, fluid, flourishing movement, 'Very well received.'

'Excellent,' a wide eyed Nikiforov breathed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there... Exams over... Sorry for the delay, you're wonderful for coming back in spite of it! And if you're new... Welcome! Comments would, as always be wonderful, and you are the most fantastic people in the we old for reading... I hope you have fun!

Katsuki was lying on Nikiforov's chest, stark naked and breathing heavily with closed eyelids and a contented smile, and Nikiforov was astounded. 

Astounded by how he somehow managed to be clean cut and perfect, like fine porcelain coloured by swirling artwork or a glass decanter with intricate patterns carved into its walls. Quiet and furtive like he might break, but firm like he never would, an emulsified layer of grit and unspoken strength painted onto him. Yet also soft and warm and wonderfully imperfect, like a frayed blanket to wrap around your shoulders when the wind blows. Heavy and grounding, feeling like safety and home.

Astounded by the fire in his eyes as he undid Nikiforov's shirt, but the shaking in his fingers as he fiddled with the buttons. The urgency that whispered, 'this means something more than biology,' and the slowness that whispered, 'this means something so much more than biology.' The way that his body was soft curves and strong muscle, balanced in a strange and fantastic equilibrium that Nikiforov thought was about the most beautiful thing in the world. How there was an endless expanse to explore, a birthmark, a blemish, and how each painted a picture of who he'd dedicated his heart and soul to. 

Astounded by how he felt as though they were one entity. How he couldn't tell where his body ended and Katsuki's began, and how he couldn't bring himself to care, because what did it matter when they were going to be together every single day anyway. How incoherent thought went out of the window, carried by the breeze to some distant future when he'd have to think of something outside of his body ever again. 

Astounded by how absurd the thought seemed. 

Life, and everything associated with it, was confined to a Parisian hotel room with the blinds shut, and the piano beneath them finally silenced. A pile of bedsheets pooling on the floor and a mass of tangled limbs on a bare bed. Two heaving chests, exhausted and mystified, and the wisps of smoke-shaped possibilities mingling with the air above them. 

Nikiforov shut his eyes, and wondered when exactly life had become so astonishingly radiant. 

He dreamt of umbrellas, and threadbare sofas, and the image of two entwined lovers that his sleep addled brain wouldn't quite let him believe was real. 

It was an excellent surprise when he awoke in the early hours to discover that it indeed was. 

***

'Gentlemen, is that sex I smell?'

Nikiforov cracked open one eye, then promptly shut it again grumpily. It was the hour when the sane people of the world are beginning to wake, therefore naturally either a while too early or too late for for him to be entering the land of the living. It was the wrong time for him to be attempting to decipher his friend's words, or to remember how wonderful life is. 

Ironically, it was an elbow to the ribs that reminded him, as Katsuki rolled off him onto the mattress. His eyes flew open urgently, and he took in the beautiful sight of his bare back, (which he was now intimately acquainted with the sight of) as he reached over the side of the bed to quickly whip the sheet off the floor to protect their modesty. 

'Good morning,' Nikiforov said softly. 

'And you,' Katsuki replied in a smiling tone. 

'Is it safe yet?' asked Giacometti from the doorway, forehead creased into a line and a hand covering his eyes. 

'Yes, yes,' Nikiforov huffed, 'And what exactly does sex smell like?'

'This room.'

'I suppose it does smell remarkably... Weighted.'

'So, yes?'

Nikiforov raised an eyebrow, and Kastuki laughed. 'Yes, Giacometti. A resounding yes.'

'Hmm. Excellent. Congratulations, if that's the word.'

'It was rather. Rather excellent.'

'I'd really rather appreciate it if you left it at that.'

'Fair enough. Now, tell us about your... Meeting. Your nice, domestic, let's get to know each other before we jump into bed meeting,' Nikiforov said excitedly. Shuffling up to lean against the headboard. Katsuki, in contrast, burrowed under the bed sheet, but poked his head out as though a child awaiting a bedtime story. 

'Do you not want to be dressed?'

'Not especially, no,' Nikiforov replied flippantly, as Katsuki shook his head quickly. 

'Suit yourselves. Well, it was mundane, and slow and intimate, and terribly caffeine fuelled.'

'Elaboration please,' Nikiforov said, hand windmilling in the air as though fishing for information. 

'I did what you said, and it worked for once, well done... I didn't believe you when you said you had your uses, but apparently so.'

'What did you say.'

'I said, 'you're rather nice to look at, would you like to have coffee?' Or... Something to that effect. Probably not that.'

'I was going to say, that's rather clinical.'

'Whatever I said, it worked... We went for coffee. And we just... talked.'

'Into the night and beyond?'

'That's the strange thing... There was so much to talk about. Conversation never went dry, it was a constant river, banks bursting like after a violent storm.'

Nikiforov clapped his hands delightedly. 'And there's the poetry! I said it was a side effect of love!'

'Oh lord, I'm turning into you.'

Nikiforov laughed loudly. 

'Wonderful, isn't it,' he said mischievously, then placed his hands together in a prayer pose, in mock seriousness, 'Now, the real question is, if I'm so wonderful, did you mention me?'

'Ah yes...' Giacometti, replied, a glimmer of something indistinguishable in his eyes, 'In fact I mentioned both of you. And he's coming to meet you in... Oh, fifteen minutes?'

Katsuki groaned loudly, and Nikiforov's mouth fell open. 

Giacometti began to back out of the room. 

'I'd put some clothes on, if I were you.'

Nikiforov said he'd heavily then frowned and shouted, 'What if we refuse?'

'Then I'll elope and not tell you where to, and you'll be stranded in Paris without a translator.'


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... A rather short and late one I'm afraid, for which I am immensely sorry. But... I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thank you so much for reading, and comments would be much appreciated. Thanks again!

The man looked about the same close up as he did from across the room, pale and tall with a youthful face and a shock of red hair. This time, however, he was retreated into the armchair in the corner of the hotel room, wincing sympathetically at Giacometti. There was something soft in his eyes, something soft and affectionate, which had scope to grow into something sprouting and passionate. He hadn't yet managed to get a word in, as the man in question was talking enough for a company of actors midway through a Shakespearian tragedy. It was a pitiful sight. 

His cheeks were flushing more by the second, as he appeared aware of what he was doing, and thus growing increasingly flustered. It was as though his mouth were a river with a broken bank, and his words were irrevocably leaching into surrounding soil. His hands were moving rapidly, as his voice continued at its erratic pace. His eyes were wide and gaping. 

Katsuki was giving him a look similar to the man's, only tinged with rather more pity than endearment. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his lips pursed. He was making a great effort to follow what he was saying, and not having much success, with the erratic flits from one subject to another. 

Nikiforov however, could not care less about what Giacometti was saying, and was instead giving all his attention to the Mystery Man in the corner. He had been introduced as Moreau, a name which suited him in a way that names sometimes do. Nikiforov wouldn't sugarcoat it... He was scrutinising him, eyeing him up and trying to gauge whether or not he was worthy of courtship with his dearest friend. His eyes were narrowed, and his hands folded into his lap, and he rather hoped that he looked quietly intimidating. 

The man hadn't given him a glance, which he thought was equal parts admirable and rude. 

He was rather miffed at being ignored throughout the babbling. But the look he was giving Giacometti, of soft affection and wonderful awe, and just the hint of exasperation that spoke of a connection beyond initial affection made him very happy indeed. 

Like he said, Giacometti was an irritating fool who deserved all the love in the world. 

All of a sudden, the monotonous din of a babbling, nervous, lovesick fool was broken by a sharp gasp. 

'Wait... We were speaking French all last night... I never checked if you speak English. Do you speak English?'

Moreau blinked innocently a couple of times, then hummed a questioning hum.

'Oh god,' Katsuki said incredulously, raising a palm to his forehead. Nikiforov's notoriously poor French language skills registered Giacometti repeating the question in French. 

A tinkling laugh sounded through the room, and Moreau exposed a mouth of white teeth. 

'Non.'

'Oh god,' Katsuki repeated, from under his hand. 

Giacometti turned to Nikiforov and Katsuki with dread in his eyes. 

'I've been talking for what seems like millennia, and he hasn't a clue what I've been saying.'

Nikiforov raised his eyebrows, and Katsuki rubbed a hand down his face. He then sighed heavily, and said flatly, 'To be fair, neither had I. You were talking quite fast.'

'Admirable attempt, Katsuki, but rather feeble in practice.'

In the foreign tongue that was his only, Moreau began to speak again, attracting the eye of all in the room but looking at only Giacometti. 

Nikiforov listened carefully, as he spoke lowly, and a smile crept over Giacometti's features. He cast the words into his brain and began to pick them apart, searching erratically for the vocabulary of his early childhood. When he came to some level of comprehension, he squealed delightedly, making everyone jump. 

'That was rather adorable. Well done. Erm... Très bien.'

Giacometti laughed, and so did Moreau, albeit a little confusedly. 

Katsuki frowned, face painted in a portrait of one bereft of an inside joke. 

'What did he say?'

Nikiforov smiled softly, and pressed his nose against Katsuki's.

'Something about his voice being like a wordless song. Which is of course how I'd feel about you, if I couldn't understand a word you were saying. But I can, and your words are beautiful. So... May I have a kiss please?'

'You may.'

And he got one. And Giacometti didn't look disgruntled in the slightest. 

Yes. 

Nikiforov rather liked Moreau.


End file.
